we live and die along the way (follow the roads to save the day)
by romanovaly
Summary: two strangers find themselves in a room full of people and what's the cliche? their eyes meet and they fall in love. / series of unrelated one shots of how gabriela dawson and matthew casey could have fallen in love in the city of chicago (AU)
1. everybody lies

**a/n:** this is retaliation for charlie's gifset on tumblr psa

—

 _two souls don't find each other by simple accident_ **jorge luis borges**

. &.

He's coming off an eight hour shift that somehow became fourteen when he sees her at the nurses' station, clipboard at her elbow, typing into the computer reserved for the paramedic reports. Her hair's falling out of its usual ponytail and he watches as she absentmindedly tucks a strand behind her ear before returning to the keyboard.

Her partner stands next to her, chattering about and waving a cup of coffee in the air. He almost brushes past them, too tired to string together a coherent sentence, when Brett spots him and waves.

He hikes his bag higher up his shoulder and switches directions, nodding a greeting to the younger blonde.

"Hey Doc," says Brett. "Heading home?"

"Yeah, long night. Morning, Gabby." He turns slightly, as she looks up from the computer screen to give him a smile.

"Matt, hi."

She looks good, but then again, she always does. It had been his first day at Chicago Med, when District 4 had requested for a trauma surgeon at a train derailment and when he had met up with her at their makeshift triage, all that was amiss were her blood-soaked gloves.

They had gone out to dinner afterwards, Gabby insisting that he reacclimatize to Chicago foods with hot dogs and beer from a hole in wall stand somewhere off Clark Street in Lincoln Park. He hadn't made a move after that, too bitter about how he and Hallie had ended to try so soon. Three years later, though, he wishes he had.

He's halfway to the door when he turns around again to find her staring after him, "Drinks, tomorrow? I'll buy."

She contemplates the suggestion for a moment, pursing her lips before shrugging, "Why not." The rest of her response drowned out by her radio crackling to life. She checks her watch, readjusts her radio strap, and nods at Brett. "That's just a few streets over. We'll probably beat the guys there."

He watches Brett start rolling their gurney out the emergency room's sliding doors while Gabby hangs back. "I'll see you tomorrow night, Doc," she says, a hand on his arm, before following her partner out to their rig.

Matt watches her leave, watches the red and white lights of the city-issued ambulance peal out of Chicago Med's driveway.

—

"Pediatric oncology."

"What?"

"I wanted to work in pediatric oncology. I had it all planned out. Biochem in undergrad, med school, great residency program. Do the time, save the world." She pauses, takes a long pull of her beer. "My best friend got cancer when I was eleven. Leukemia. It was supposed to be treatable. She spent three years in and out of the hospital." She drags a finger through the water ring on the table, mindlessly creating shapes, drawing out the silence. "It came back when I was a senior in college. It metastasized quickly, aggressively, spread everywhere." There are tears gathering at the corner of her eyes. "She died, a month before I graduated. I barely had a chance to say goodbye."

He looks at her, leaning heavily against the bar, head in her hands.

"I couldn't do it," she talks to the counter, eyes fixed on a knot in the wood. "I deferred a year to UChicago's med school. I thought I needed some time away from all of it. I volunteered with Northwestern's EMT program all four years of undergrad, so I was already certified. Leslie, she had a friend who worked for the CFD, Kelly, he got me a spot with the city and here I am."

"Why didn't you go after the year was over?" He's staring intently at her, trying to figure out the mystery surrounding a young woman already so troubled.

He would have never guessed, watching her interact with the nurses and attending doctors at Chicago Med. Bubbly, compassionate, a little bit bad ass; all of those descriptors were thrown around the locker room when he asked about her after shift once. But, that kindness and care she shows with each person that ends up in the back of her ambulance had to come from somewhere, he figured.

"I thought about it," she shrugs. "When my year was up, I almost went back. Then I pushed it to six more months, turned into two years. I couldn't do it." She takes a deep breath, he watches it wrack her body before she shakes her head and turns to look at him again. "So what's your story, Doc? Why'd you go down the road of no sleep, lots of coffee, and insufferable know-it-alls?"

Her eyes twinkle in the low lights of the bar, the wood paneling highlighting her tan skin. He laughs briefly and shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I can't follow up that. My story's gonna sound real bad in comparison to yours."

"Impossible," she says, tossing back a handful of mixed nuts.

"I thought it was the best way to stick it to my parents."

She peers over the rim of her beer bottle.

"See, you think that's bad," he leans back in his seat, takes a drink of his own beer.

"No, I think that's a story. That's the start of a great story."

They're nestled into a corner table at one of the pubs frequented by Chicago's first responders. Most of the people are crowded around the bar, energy fixed on the Bears game being broadcast. The mood of the group fluctuates with the number of interceptions made by Cutler. Gabby, though, watches him, curiosity gleaming up at him.

"Dad didn't care, you know? He could've cared less what I did and when I was a kid all I wanted was for him to care for even a second. I did sports, hockey, baseball, even played football for a season. I guess I thought if he thought I'd amount to nothing, I'd become somebody. Going to med school seemed like the best solution at the time."

"How about your mom? Or, your sister?" she hesitates only a moment.

He shrugs. "Christie was too wrapped up in her own stuff and my mom, I think she's just glad I'm not a deadbeat like him."

She waits until the Bears screw up another play and finishes her drink, tilting the glass in his direction. "Well, for what it's worth, I care."

—

They split the cab ride back from the bar. He rattles off her address first, remembering it from the few times she's invited him by for dinner or when he's dropped by to fix whatever leaky sink or drafty window her landlord is too cheap to fix. The ride is bumpy, the both of them being jostled left and right from the potholes left over from the harsh winter. Gabby's giggling into his shoulder as he tells her about some of the more questionable ER visitors he's assisted over the years, chiming in every so often when she has a story from the paramedic side of things.

He tells the cabbie to wait as they roll up to her complex, getting out of the car to walk her to her door. The streetlights catch on the gems of her necklace as he leans against her doorjamb to say goodnight.

"Stay," she whispers, looking up at him. "Don't you want to give it a shot?"

"You deserve more than a shot, Gabby. This is worth doing right."

She stares up at him with a challenge in her eyes. "Well here's your chance."

He hesitates only a second before slipping a hand around her neck, pulling her closer to him, and pressing a kiss to her lips. She parts for breath first, landing on her heels and he murmurs into the space between them, laughter in his voice, "Just one thing, let me pay the cab first."

—

i tend to write when classes are super boring so i have a couple more saved in my drafts but! if you have any prompts that you wanna see with these two morons drop a line at my tumblr (gabrielaadawson) or twitter (nikki_moscato) where it's chicago fire trash 24/7


	2. she said my boy it's dagger

**a/n** **;** anyone who knows me should have known this was coming eventually...

.&.

Shay manages to get tickets to a Blackhawks game through a friend of a friend who's had season tickets since before Rocky Wirtz took over ownership of the team. It's late enough in the season that playoff rumors are starting to make a rumble but still early enough that 'Hawks mania hasn't take over the city just yet.

She's gone to games before. A few with her brother and his family, once she took her dad as a gift for his birthday, or maybe it was father's day. She even had an unfortunate date up in the nosebleed seats a couple years back.

Sports games aren't usually her and Shay's thing. They stick to the nightclubs or brunch on the weekends or a shopping trip down Michigan Avenue if their lives have been particularly terrible. But, Shay had shown up at her job still dressed up in her work clothes, waving the embossed tickets in the air and _we're gonna have a_ great _time_.

That's how Gabby ends up in the 200-level of the United Center, drinking $9 beer and watching Shay shamelessly flirt with a girl across the aisle from them.

Crawford misses the puck as it ricochets off the pole and suddenly all of Chicago is up in arms. She's sitting when there's a shout behind her and then cold beer is spilling down the back of her shirt and settling in her hair.

Shay's immediately on the defensive, turning in her seat to yell, "What the hell was that?"

Gabby follows her lead, ready to lay it into whoever got drunk enough on a Wednesday night when she gets a good look at the offender. He's already got a stack of napkins in his hands, apology written all over his face.

"I'm really sorry, listen, Sev gets a little pissed when Crawford doesn't do his job right," he throws an accusing glare to his right where his friend puts up his hands in mock defense. "Let me buy you a beer or something."

He's cute, a baseball cap perched on his head and a bright red Blackhawks jersey that somehow makes the blues of his eyes stand out even more.

Gabby grins, ire forgotten, and says, "Or maybe a new shirt. This one's trashed."

He laughs, "Hey, whatever it takes to stay out of your friend's line of fire." he sticks out a hand. "I'm Matt, by the way."

"Gabby," she takes his hand.

Shay pipes up, "I'm Leslie, not that anyone cares I'm sure."

Matt jabs a thumb to his right and then left, "That's Kelly and over here is Pete." Pete waves while Kelly nods his head in greeting.

The buzzer sounds, indicating the end of the second period, and Shay starts pushing her out of her seat. "You should go and try to dry off, y'know, before the lines get awful," then she turns to Matt. "I can watch your friends if you're worried they're gonna set fire to the stadium."

"Sounds good," he says. "We'll go get the next round, I guess."

Gabby picks her way down the row of chairs, Matt following her one level up.

The halls of the United Center are filled with people looking to get food or merchandise before the last twenty minutes of play. Gabby gets jostled left and right by people overeager about the 'Hawks primed to win the game. After the fourth or fifth times she almost loses Matt to the crowd, he grabs her hand and keeps ahold until he stops in front of a stand selling gear.

"Who's your guy?"

"What?"

"Favorite player? Whose name would you wear?"

There's a bunch of shirt designs lining the wall. Some are pretty nondescript, in colors of black, white and grey with smaller logos. Some are obviously intended for kids with bright colors and fancy lettering and, in some questionable cases, lots of sequins. Matt's pointing to the side of the display with red t-shirts screen printed with the team's logo on the front and a player's name and number on the back.

She shrugs, trying to remember the players that her brother's always talking about. "Keith, I guess. Or, uh, Seabrook?"

"You guess?" he teases as they approach the register. "She'll take a Toews shirt, thanks."

"Sorry, I'm not a dedicated fan who probably knows their addresses? Let me guess, you've been a fan since before they won in 2010," she responds, gratefully accepting the overpriced t-shirt.

" _Please_ , I've been a fan since the day I was born," he scoffs. "My dad had seats at the old Chicago Stadium."

They get back to their section with the third period already underway. Shay's moved into Matt's old seat, in the middle of telling a rambunctious story that Gabby's sure she's heard a million times. She's settling back in her chair when Shay catches her eye and winks. Gabby shakes her head at her best friend's antics, but appreciates them all the same.

Shay leans forward during a lull in the game, tapping her on the shoulder and loudly whispering in her ear, "Nice shirt."

She's got a shit-eating grin on her face as Gabby shoves her away, more intent on listening to Matt describe the opposing side's line of defense than gossip with her best friend.

The game ends with the Blackhawks with four points to the other team's three and "Chelsea Dagger" aggressively playing throughout the stadium. The five of them make their way to the gates slowly, avoiding the race of the crowd. Pete leaves the group first, heading towards the Blue Line. While Shay keeps an arm looped through Kelly's, the two of them laughing hysterically about something. She and Matt follow a few paces behind their friends, enjoying each other's company.

"Looks like Severide's got...

Gabby interrupts, laughing loudly, "Oh that's _not_ happening."

"What? She seems totally into him."

"Only if Kelly is secretly a woman, but I'd hedge my bets he's not. Shay's a lesbian."

Matt takes a moment before speaking again, "What about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"If I ask you out to dinner tomorrow, would you say yes."

She slows to a stop, "Is that your terrible attempt at asking me out?"

"…Yes?"

She grabs his phone out of his hand and puts in her number. She leans in and slips it back into his pocket. "8 o'clock, Bom Bolla on Milwaukee," she says and turns around to leave, Shay impatiently waiting at the car.

"Don't be late," she yells over her shoulder. He's still standing where she left him, a stupid grin on his face.

When she finally reaches Shay, her best friend leans across the hood of the car, smirk firmly on her face. "And who was groaning about going to a stupid sports game, earlier?"

"Shut up or I'm making you walk."

Shay's laughter echoes across the parking lot and continues all the way back home.

.&.

fun fact: this happened to me at a cubs game, well not the cute stuff just the spilling of beer on me and my friends part. but yeah! if you want more cool stories like that, come check out my twitter (nikki_moscato) or my tumblr (gabrielaadawson)


	3. falling in love at a coffeeshop

a/n: there's so much fluff here that it'll rot your teeth out. just in time for the mid-season finale, whoops. here's to all my fellow students struggling over finals and wishing a cute guy or gal will come distract you instead.

.&.

He stops at the same coffeeshop every morning before his shift, grabbing a black coffee with two sugars and the best damn bacon, egg, and cheese in Chicago, preferring to spend his own money rather than trust the House's new candidate with cooking. She's not there every time. Never on Sundays, infrequently on Tuesdays and Fridays. But, every other day he sees her wedged into a corner table, books and papers spread in front of her and the tallest cup of coffee always steaming on her right.

He comes in early on a Wednesday, he's not on shift and doesn't have anything to do except hang around the city all day. Her usual table is empty and he picks up a copy of the _Sun-Times_ and settles down.

"You're in my seat."

He doesn't know what he was expecting her to sound like but it wasn't that, honeyed tones tinged in amusement. Her eyebrow is quirked upwards and her lips are pulled into a slight smirk. She's shouldering a worn backpack, one strap hanging at her side. She's wrapped in a bulky sweatshirt, a university crest stitched on the left, school of medicine carefully recorded underneath.

"There's tons of open seats here," he tells her, shifting back in his chair.

"Oh come on, you're in here like every day. I've got a huge test tomorrow and this spot's got the best light and wi-fi connection."

He watches as she expertly juggles a muffin, mug of coffee and her cell phone to push back a lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes. He gestures to the empty seat across from him.

"I won't bother you."

She narrows her gaze, contemplating the offer, before settling down and taking a bite out of the muffin. She takes out a large textbook with colorful sticky notes marking countless pages, a laptop covered in stickers, and a legal pad full of messy cursive.

He tilts his head and watches as she arranges the table _just so_ before taking a sip of coffee and attacking the textbook with a highlighter. He manages to stay quiet through the entire sports section of the _Sun-Times_ and is just contemplating starting the crossword, when a pen crosses in front of his line of vision.

"If you stare long enough, the words won't just appear," she remarks with amusement. "This isn't _Harry Potter._ Or, are you more of a pencil guy?"

He takes the pen with little fanfare, shaking his head and hiding the smile that's pulling up the corner of his mouth. "Pen's fine. How's the studying?"

"Oh, you know. Terrible, awful, haven't gotten any better at the process since my first spelling test in the first grade." She's expressive when she talks, he's noticed, waving her hands and constantly changing facial expressions. It's fascinating to him.

"What're you studying?"

"Medicine," she says wryly, like he couldn't figure it out from all the little clues on her person. "I'm over at the UChicago Med School. It's my second year."

He dated a doctor, once. She was an emergency room resident at one of the local hospitals the firehouse frequents and he was still a candidate, young and bold and just a little bit reckless. They lasted a year, burning too bright and too hot with no other hope than ending in brilliant flames. He recalls the weekend after it all ended more fondly than the months they spent curled on his ratty couch watching hockey games.

"What about you," she asks, gesturing with her pen. "Don't you have a job or something?"

"Or something," he replies with a grin. "I'm a firefighter over at 51. Twenty-four on, forty-eight off."

"No shit," she says delightedly. "My best friend's a paramedic over in Lincoln Park. Leslie Shay. She's always telling me about the crazy calls they get. She almost talked me into skipping out on med school and taking the medic test."

 _Leslie Shay,_ the name rings a bell. He thinks Severide's mentioned her a couple times. Granted, Severide's usually talking up a new girl. _Shay,_ he repeats to himself, vaguely remembering a tall blonde with a loud laugh.

He snaps his fingers, "She's Severide's new roommate, right?"

She nods, "Yeah, I helped her move into the apartment a couple weeks ago. It's a nice place." Then she's off, describing a story from that weekend that ended in tequila shots and thai food at one in the morning.

Her eyes are engaging as she draws him in further with every story, every adventure she and her friend have managed to undertake within Chicago's limits and beyond. He shares, too. Mostly stories from his time with the fire department, some from the academy and one stray memory from one of the contracting jobs he'll pick up when he needs the extra cash.

He finds out she's hilarious, filled with wry humor and a sharp mind. She keeps him on his toes as they talk about out everything from recent Chicago politics to his favorite Disney movie as a kid. She laughs when he says, " _Tron_ is the best movie ever," and he watches a faint blush spread across her cheeks as she tells him that she's always loved _Cinderella_.

He's interrupted by her phone buzzing, its vibrations making it dance across the tabletop.

"Damn," she mutters, picking it up and sliding a finger across the bottom of the screen to accept the call. "Hey, Antonio! Is everything alright?"

He pulls out his phone, too, checking the time when the screen comes to life. _1:02pm._ They've been here for hours already, just talking and trading stories. He can't believe how easily they've passed the time and how much he's distracted her from an obviously important exam.

She lowers her phone and puts on an apologetic frown. "That was my brother, he's a cop over at 21 and I guess he got called in on his day off for some gang case he's been working for months. I gotta go watch my niece and nephew."

She starts packing up, draining the last of the dregs from her cup of coffee that he's sure the barista has come to refill four or five times.

He nods and shuffles in his seat, "Yeah, I should probably get going, too. Some of the guys were supposed to get together to watch the 'Hawks game this afternoon and I need to do some paperwork before shift."

Her phone vibrates again and she groans, pulling on her backpack and answering the call simultaneously. "Hey Eva, I'll be there in twenty, okay? What do you guys want to eat, I can pick it up."

She waves bye, heading towards the exit, a soft smile on her face. He watches her leave, not getting out of his chair until her car has pulled away from the curb. It's only then that he realizes he never got her number, let alone her name.

.&.

When she arrives at the coffeeshop the next morning, rooting through her purse to find enough change for her usual order, the barista is already holding out a steaming cup of coffee and one of the cranberry-orange scones she rarely indulges in.

"That fireman took care of it," he says, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses further up his nose. "Said to say, _good luck_."

She takes the cup, spinning it in her hands for a moment. She almost misses it, still hung up on the fact that he bought her coffee like they were the leads in a rom-com, when the black marker catches her eye. Written on the sleeve of the cup, where the barista usually writes her name and order, there's a phone number, _Matt_ scrawled alongside it.

She rolls her eyes at the cheesiness of the action even as her cheeks warm from all of the attention.

Maybe she'll call him. Or, maybe she'll pick up his coffee tab next time, even out their score. But, first, she's got an exam on human gross anatomy to cram for. Her eyes land on the cup one more time.

Well, it couldn't hurt to just send a _quick_ text.


End file.
